Sign of Three
by YourFairyGodfather
Summary: There was no hint of it in her letters, no warning of her coming. She simply arrived one afternoon in late September, the autumn wind tugging at her coat and a small suitcase at her feet as she waited patiently on the front porch for one of them to open the door.
1. Chapter 1

There was no hint of it in her letters, no warning of her coming. She simply arrived one afternoon in late September, the autumn wind tugging at her coat and a small suitcase at her feet as she waited patiently on the front porch for one of them to open the door.

When he finally did, she greeted him with her soft, winning smile, perfectly outlined with her favored brand of cosmetics which he knew for a fact she hadn't had access to in her prison warehouse.

"I did tell you I'd be out within the year," she reminded him, gently filling in his uncharacteristically shocked silence. "I don't suppose you have space on the roof for me to work? My easel should be arriving shortly. I can paint downwind of your hives to avoid disturbing the bees, if you like."

For all her certainty that she would one day circumvent the system and become a free woman, Sherlock could safely admit that he hadn't seen this one coming.

* * *

To say that Joan had some initial reservations about the new arrangement would be something of an understatement.

"No," she said flatly, upon looking up from the toaster to see Moriarty, who had followed a suitcase-toting Sherlock through the kitchen door—criminal mastermind and murderess or not, she was still a lady, and English manners would out. "No, no, no, _are you insane, _no, no. Not happening."

Sherlock grimaced.

Moriarty smiled. "I had every intention of leaving the pair of you alone upon my release," she lied easily, transparently. "But I'm afraid that my newfound freedom does come with some restrictions—I've been told that it will take your government several days to remove the holds on many of my financial accounts, leaving me somewhat pressed for income in the short term. And even if money weren't an issue, I'm not entirely at liberty as of yet—given the number of organizations, legal and otherwise, with their eyes on me at the moment, international travel looks to be more trouble than it's currently worth.

"I have other resources, of course," she added, picking up an apple from the bowl of fruit on the counter and studying it causally before putting it back. "But the time it would take to access them is similar, and I'm in no particular hurry to leave the city."

Clearly noting Joan's look of extreme displeasure, Sherlock rocked back and forth slightly on his feet, swinging his arms awkwardly—a gesture historically followed by exasperating information, in Joan's experience.

He did not disappoint. "I am assured that this arrangement, though no doubt somewhat odious to you, is indeed a temporary one," he promised, with the faux cheer of a man who knew that he was fooling absolutely no one. "A week, perhaps; ten days at the most. Obviously, you are welcome to stay here if you so choose—this is your home, and you are within your right to come and go as you please. However, out of respect for your privacy—"

Joan scoffed, conveying skepticism and irritation in equal measure.

"—and given your pointed, understandable dislike of our current houseguest," Sherlock continued, ignoring the interruption, "I am prepared to arrange for you to stay elsewhere in the interim. A hotel, if you prefer, or one of my father's other properties. Perhaps with Ms. Hudson; I have it on good information that her current paramour is out of the country until the first of the month, and she's currently in the market for an assistant in translating her latest work—it'd be an excellent learning opportunity for you."

Joan crossed her arms, leaning against the counter. "And you can't put _her _up in a hotel because, why?" she asked, glaring openly at both of them.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but Moriarty beat him to it. "Security," she answered brightly, easily matching Sherlock's false cheer. "My recent…inactivity has given many of my enemies the chance to consolidate power and amass their resources. I'm afraid nothing New York has to offer in the way of hotels can match the kind of home security that you and Sherlock have here in the brownstone. I'll be much safer here than anywhere else."

"Because putting the serial murderer _inside _the apartment just screams 'safety'," Joan retorted, ignoring the smell of burning toast behind her and instead turning to Sherlock. "You can't possibly think that staying here alone, with a criminal mastermind that you have extensive personal history with, is in any way a good idea," she reasoned, her stare hard.

Sherlock's posture straightened as he beamed back at her. "So you're staying, then," he deduced, clapping his hands in front of him. "Excellent."

"And get murdered in my bed right along with you?" Joan shot back, disbelieving. "I'm curious, did you put any sort of thought into this plan _at all _before agreeing to it, or did you just feel bored today and decide that letting an extremely dangerous criminal stay with us would liven things up?"

Moriarty held up a finger. "If I could just interject and remind you that I _have_ stayed here before without murdering either of you," she pointed out, "and, in fact, did you a service by shooting as assassin that was rather well bent on killing Sherlock at the time."

"Ok, you are _not helping," _Joan hissed, holding both of her hands up in exasperation, before pausing and taking a deep breath.

And immediately began coughing—the toast she had been making to go with her tea was charred beyond recognition, and smoke was beginning to pour out of the toaster.

Bypassing the switches entirely and angrily yanking the cord right out of its socket, Joan turned back to Sherlock and Moriarty, who were watching her with slight concern and infuriating condescension, respectively. "All right," she sighed, resigned. "Here's the deal: I'm going to call Captain Gregson immediately and tell him about your idiotic plan to let her stay here, and hope that he has _you_ committed and _her _put into protective custody. If that doesn't happen, I'm going to ask him what sort of safety measures he would recommend in a case like this, and we _will _be implementing any and all of his suggestions, without complaint."

Sherlock leaned forward slightly. "And what if—"

"_Without complaint," _Joan reiterated, and Sherlock shut his mouth with an audible snap. "While_ I_ am doing that, _you_ are going to choose several locks from your extensive collection to safeguard all the entrances to my room, including the loose panel at the top of the closet that leads to the storage cabinet in the hall. Call someone to install them or do it yourself, but I want them ready by the end of the day."

Sherlock thought about it for a moment before nodding sharply. "I'm amenable to your conditions," he agreed, and leaned over to pick up Moriarty's suitcase where he'd set it down. "I appreciate your willingness to compromise on the matter, Watson," he added. "I realize that your—_our_—previous interactions with Moriarty have been somewhat fraught, and it would not have surprised me greatly if you had called the precinct immediately upon seeing her."

Joan's frown softened. "Let's be clear on this," she stated, leaning back against the counter. "I'm not doing this for her. I think this is the stupidest plan you've ever come up with, there is no way this is going to end well, and I will breathe a lot easier once she's out of the brownstone and over on the other side of the world. Which, for the record, I'm pretty sure she could make happen today if she really wanted to."

Joan paused. "But I know you," she continued, "and I know that if we throw her out now and anything happens to her, you'll blame yourself. Even if this is a terrible idea."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, paused, and closed it again.

Down the hall, the doorbell rang.

Sherlock quickly put the suitcase back down. "Your art supplies, I expect," he said to Moriarty, avoiding Joan's eye. "If you'll excuse me."

He hurried from the kitchen, leaving Moriarty and Joan staring first at the doorway, then at each other.

Moriarty broke the awkward silence first. "I'm curious," she wondered out loud, tilting her head slightly. "What sort of lock do you expect Sherlock would have that would keep me out, if I decided that I wanted to come in?"

* * *

The first night was a long one.

* * *

When Joan woke up from her fitful sleep for what felt like the tenth time, the early morning sunlight was streaming in through the window and shining directly into her eyes. Groaning slightly as she stretched under the sheets, she turned away to face the wall. And froze.

A silver tray, one which had definitely not been there the night before, was resting on the small table next to her bed.

Suddenly completely awake, Joan shifted until she was sitting upright, then carefully lifted the tray from the table and placed it next to her on the mattress. On it was a covered ceramic plate from their kitchen, the kind that Sherlock used to bring her breakfast whenever he dragged her out of bed for a case before she was ready to wake up, and a small, folded piece of paper.

Joan picked up the paper first—it was cardstock, some of the nicest she'd ever seen; at least as nice as the calligraphied graduation announcements her mother had sent around after she'd completed her final year of medical school. Her name was written across it in beautifully flowing script, and she unfolded it to see a message written in more of the same:

_My Dear Watson, _the note read,

_By the time you are able to read this note, you'll have noticed that you are in fact still alive, and that I took the liberty of not murdering you in your sleep as you so feared. Please take this realization as a gesture of my goodwill. _

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Jamie Moriarty_

Temporarily overlooking the alarming fact that Moriarty had been able to break into her room and leave the tray without waking her, Joan lifted the cover off of the plate.

Delicately arranged on the ceramic, and tied with a pink satin ribbon, was a single white peony.


	2. Chapter 2

If Joan had been home on that particular Thursday, the conversation that began it all likely never would have happened.

Or, if it had, she would have objected strenuously to the entire thing, forcing Moriarty and Sherlock to be…at least a little more _subtle _in their insanity, thus preserving Joan's for a little longer. At the very least, she would have had a better idea of how much blame to assign each of the participants, rather than flooding the brownstone with a blanket coating of frustrated disapproval.

On Thursday, however, Joan had an appointment with her therapist. And though their infrequent meetings were not terribly high on her list of priorities, nor something she particularly enjoyed, after three days of her current living arrangement—waking up in a cold sweat at the slightest noise, finding objects that she _knew _had been in her room moved around the brownstone despite changing the locks again_,_ going through antacids like they were candy (and it was entirely possible that Sherlock had switched them out with actual candy, for all the good that they were doing), suppressing her instinctive flinch every time Moriarty looked at so much as a _butter knife _wrong—Joan was practical enough to admit that some outside psychiatric help was probably her best chance at making it through the 'ten days, at the most' without an ulcer or a nervous breakdown.

And after 90 minutes of discussing, in depth, why being only reasonably sure that her partner's ex-girlfriend/murdering psychopath/criminal mastermind wasn't planning on slitting her throat over breakfast wasn't enough to have her screaming for the nearest witness protection program, and why she continued to let Sherlock put her into these absurd, dangerous situations, Joan felt as though she'd earned an extravagantly expensive coffee and a relaxing half an hour at one of her favorite cafes. Just a small, peaceful reprieve from everything before she threw herself back into the fray.

If Joan had been home, things might have turned out differently. But because she wasn't, Moriarty and Sherlock were left alone together on the roof for three hours; her painting an original work that she refused to show anyone, he tending to his bees.

Until the sound of a scalpel scraping the canvas distracted him, causing him to look over.

Moriarty smiled. "Too much yellow," she explained, holding up the blade. And indeed, when Sherlock squinted, he could see traces of the offending hue streaked on the sharp edge.

He frowned, recognizing the tool. "I feel it fair to warn you that Watson will more than likely take umbrage at your purloining her medical equipment for your work," he offered neutrally. "Particularly given that the item in question is a sharp implement, which, as I'm certain you've noticed, makes her ill at ease to see you holding."

Moriarty's smile grew. "As if you don't do the same on a regular basis," she pointed out, reaching for the paint rag on the rickety table next to her and cleaning the scalpel without looking at it. "And perhaps she'll be more inclined to share her tools once she learns that I intend to give her the painting once it's completed. I am painting with her particular aesthetics in mind, after all."

Sherlock turned away. "Personal experience is _how _I know she'd thoroughly disapprove of having her medical bag rifled through," he admitted, unembarrassed. "And Watson has a rather stringent set of parameters regarding her possessions and their whereabouts—I'm not certain that your intentions regarding her kit will trump your failure to request permission to use it."

There was a pause. Then: "I will admit, the portrait you did of her was exquisite. An excellent likeness, especially when one considers that your in-person acquaintance had, at that juncture, been quite trifling."

Moriarty added a small amount of blue to her brush and went back to work. "Thank you," she said simply. "I'd be happy to have it sent here, if you like. The landing above the stairs is large enough to support the frame, and it could use some livening up."

"Of course," Sherlock continued, seemingly oblivious to the offer, "I was rather surprised that you chose not to paint her freckles, given that they're among the better—and more counterintuitive—of her features."

Moriarty paused almost imperceptibly. "But I did paint them," she answered, wrist moving delicately as she added details to the canvas that only she could see. "And then I painted over them, as Watson does herself whenever her schedule permits." She leaned forward, critically eyeing her brushstrokes. "Surely you've noticed that Joan applies a layer of concealer whenever you allow her enough time in the morning to indulge her vanities to an appropriate degree, before dragging her off elsewhere."

"With moisturizer and SPF 15 sunscreen," Sherlock confirmed shortly. "Except in the summer, when she forgoes foundation entirely and merely wears sunscreen."

Moriarty smiled at that. "And I haven't yet had the opportunity to know her in the summer," she pointed out. "I merely painted what was there—and exquisitely, as you said."

Sherlock's frown deepened. "Was it your first true original, then?" he wanted to know. "Obviously, you were working on _something _before your first…disappearance."

He made a face at that, as if the word was distasteful, yet necessary, in his mouth. "But I never did see it," he continued, "and I find myself less inclined to trust blindly than I was then."

"If that's truly the case," Moriarty wondered aloud, "what difference could my answer make to you? But no," she continued, "her portrait was not the first, though I do prize it as among the best."

She gazed past Sherlock, her glance sweeping out over the city. "Watson liked it, too, although she doesn't know that yet," she confided with a soft smile.

Sherlock tilted his head. "I thought her rather unnerved, actually," he disagreed, "though she took some pains to hide it. In another situation, I'd perhaps be more inclined to defer to your expertise—you having had a rather richer experience than I in reading others' reactions to your artwork—but I know Watson far more intimately that you do. She's not readily disposed to flattery in the way one might assume."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "My dear Sherlock," she replied, a hint of scorn in her voice as she turned at last to look at him, "of course she is. Subconsciously, perhaps, but our Watson is no different in that respect than anyone, you and I included."

Sherlock's eyes, which had narrowed at the mention of '_our _Watson', were skeptical. "Even if you were correct in your observation—a premise with which I do not agree—behavioral expression is a much more accurate indicator of a person's feelings than any Neo-Freudian urge buried to the point of uselessness. Following your example, one could claim any number of unprovable things about Watson, and justify them in such a way that they defy validation or refutation. In short, you're cheating."

Moriarty put down her brush and crossed her arms. "Oh, Sherlock," she sighed, eyes narrowing to match his. "Is it really so hard for you to admit that I might know something about your…protégé, that you do not?"

Sherlock scoffed theatrically. "Seeing as your statement is an _impossibility,_" he spat, "I don't see the point in admitting anything. You cannot match, in what amounts to maybe a _week's_ worth of exposure, the knowledge I have accumulated regarding someone with whom I've lived and worked for nearly _two years_."

Moriarty didn't flinch at his agitated tone. "That," she stated evenly, "sounds distinctly like a challenge."

Slowly, Sherlock began to smile back.

* * *

If Sherlock had been consulted, he would have used Moriarty's final statement to blame the entire thing on her.

But what, Jamie Moriarty would have countered, did a staggeringly brilliant mind such as Sherlock's really expect from _such_ a beginning?

* * *

The opening salvo was the book.

"Sherlock?" Watson called from upstairs. "What happened to the book that was in my room?"

Sherlock, who was sitting in the front room attempting to repair a television that was lately prone to losing the signal at inopportune moments, didn't look up from his screwdriver. "There are several books in your room, Watson," he yelled back, deftly replacing one of the screws in the chunk of metal he was holding. "You'll have to be a lot more specific."

He heard the sound of Watson's shoes clomping down the hall. "The one with the blue cover that was on the table," she elaborated, her voice significantly closer than it had been. "It was there this morning, and now it's missing."

"I put it in the drop box outside the library a few hours ago."

Sherlock turned at the sound of her voice—unseen by him, Moriarty had left the kitchen, where she'd been reading the newspaper, and was standing in the doorway.

Watson came far enough down the stairs to glare at her. "Why would you do that?" she wanted to know. "You didn't ask whether or not I was done with it yet—and that's not even getting into the fact that I've asked you a dozen times already to stop breaking into my room."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow in surprise. "But you were done with it," she pointed out. "You keep whatever you're currently reading in your purse, in case you have a free moment, or are on the train alone and need something to do. Except last night, you took the book into your room—there were only fourteen pages left, and you wanted to finish it. You kept your light on for twenty-seven minutes after closing your door, but didn't turn on your computer; instead, you restarted the final chapter to remind yourself what had previously happened, then finished the book."

Watson stared. "I don't want to know why you know that," she interjected.

Moriarty smiled. "Also, you had no intention of reading it a second time, though you enjoyed it," she added. "It was due tomorrow, and at nearly four hundred pages, you knew you wouldn't have the time."

Sherlock watched as Watson closed her eyes in exasperation, holding up her hands as if to stem the flow of deductions. "Whatever," she groaned, before turning and starting back up the stairs. "Just…ask, before you move my things next time."

Moriarty took a step toward the stairs. "The sequel's in your purse," she called up sweetly, and she and Sherlock listened as Watson's door slammed.

Moriarty looked over at Sherlock. "That was among the kinder of the reactions I had anticipated," she admitted, unperturbed. "There was a 3% chance of her throwing the sequel at my head."

Sherlock, who had been distracted from his work by the small scene, picked the screwdriver back up. "Watson wouldn't risk damaging the book," he informed her, adopting a disinterested tone.

Moriarty smiled anyway. "Sherlock. You can't possibly think your partner incapable of losing her temper in such a manner," she countered easily. "I'm sure you've driven her to worse."

* * *

Joan, determined not to give Moriarty the satisfaction of knowing…whatever it was the book incident was supposed to prove, deliberately avoided thinking about it for the rest of the day. She did not read three chapters of the sequel before going to bed that night, and she absolutely didn't have any trouble falling asleep. She remained serene and unmoved.

Right up until the moment the next morning when, wrapped in a towel post-shower, she nearly kicked over a pair of steaming coffee mugs that had been left directly outside the bathroom door.

"Sherl—" she started to yell, before cutting herself off—as long as Moriarty was staying with them, she couldn't blame every bizarre, ridiculous occurrence on Sherlock anymore.

Even if shouting at someone would have been somewhat cathartic.

Despite not finishing her yell, Sherlock bounded up the stairs and down the hall within seconds, as if he'd been waiting at the bottom of the steps for her call. "Yes, Watson?" he prompted expectantly, hands laced behind his back.

Joan gestured at the mugs. "What are these doing in the middle of the floor?" she demanded, readjusting her grip on the towel as Sherlock pointedly looked at her face and nowhere lower. "Because if they're for an experiment, you need to move them somewhere where I'm not going to kick them over by accident."

Sherlock frowned, puzzled. "I would have thought it would have been obvious, Watson," he chastised lightly. "They—"

He paused, then looked down, his expression changing to one of irritation. "Oh. Yes, I see. You're exactly right, Watson, and I shall dispose of this for you, post haste."

Bending over, Sherlock snatched one of the mugs off of the floor and strode off with it, leaving Joan with the second mug.

Before Joan had a chance to move, she heard a resounding crash come from the direction of the kitchen, one that sounded distinctly like porcelain shattering in the metal sink.

"Well, that wasn't weird at all," she muttered, gingerly sliding the remaining mug out of the way with her foot, then heading down the hall to her room to get dressed.

On her nightstand sat a second set of mugs.

* * *

The coffee mugs continued to follow Joan around all day.

In most of the rooms she went into in the brownstone over the course of several hours, there were pairs of drinks sitting on the floor, or on a table if there was one—one mug of coffee, one of tea. They were always piping hot and apparently freshly made, but as carefully and often as she listened, she could never detect the sound of the coffeepot brewing or the kettle whistling, and both appliances were cold whenever she went into the kitchen to check.

The drinks were occasionally accompanied by a scone on a plate, or a blueberry muffin on a stack of paper napkins. Joan hadn't even known that there were pastries in the house. Or more than a dozen coffee mugs in the cabinets, for that matter.

Sometimes, there was only one beverage in the room. Whenever that was the case, it never took Joan long to discover traces of the missing second—drips of coffee on the floorboards, the lingering smell of jasmine over a freshly-watered houseplant, more shards of broken dishware in the sink. After the third smashed mug, Joan gave up and left a dustpan and broom on the counter, carefully sweeping the broken pieces each time into a paper bag to be thrown out in the dumpster behind the building.

Throughout it all, Sherlock and Moriarty were suspiciously absent.

* * *

Both geniuses resurfaced just in time for dinner that night—takeout Chinese that someone other than Joan had ordered—and were on unusually good behavior, passing Joan soy sauce and napkins and pepper without prompting or commentary.

Neither one of them would openly admit to assailing her with beverages all day.

_Openly_ admit.

"You do strike me as more of a coffee drinker when you have the option, Joan," Moriarty pointed out, delicately teasing out a clump of rice with her chopsticks. "Although separately, you really might consider adding a second teaspoon of sugar to your morning cup, the way the café on the corner that you prefer does—you enjoy it much more, and it's hardly as if a bit of added sweetness would do you any disservice."

Joan frowned, but Sherlock intervened before she could think of a reply. "Nonsense," he disagreed, sitting up straighter in his chair but continuing to look down at his food. "Although Watson does enjoy coffee, and with varying amounts of sugar, she prefers tea about seven times out of ten. Caffeinated before 5pm or if we're working on a case; decaffeinated if she anticipates going to bed at what constitutes a normal hour."

Joan looked back and forth between the two, both of them eyeing her with noticeable anticipation. "But neither of you had anything to do with today," she stated flatly, barely restraining the eyeroll that desperately wanted to come out.

Sherlock, at least, had the good grace to look very slightly ashamed of himself.

Joan sighed, folding up her mostly empty takeout carton. "Right. I don't think I really want to drink anything made by either of you right now," she admitted, before picking up her plate and napkins and taking them to the kitchen.

* * *

When the sound of arguing woke her up at 3am—whispers of "_sabotage" _and _"sugar" _ and _"blatant disrespect of sportsmanship"_ hissing their way through the air vent—Joan only listened long enough to ascertain that neither Moriarty nor Sherlock sounded angry enough to stab the other with a chopstick, before rolling over and going back to sleep.

* * *

Despite coming in at a distant third within the brownstone in the matter of sheer intellect (she hadn't decided whether Sherlock or Moriarty would win that contest, but she was certain that the minute she decided, the other would immediately deduce it and harangue her for it) Joan was far from stupid. She was well aware that some sort of dick-measuring contest was going on behind the scenes between Sherlock and Moriarty, and was also conscious of the fact that it had something to do with her.

She also knew that, being the only one involved with any sense of proportions or social limitations, she probably ought to put a stop to it sooner rather than later.

However.

Between the low-grade terror of having a mass murderer with an understandable grudge sleeping in the room off of the kitchen, everyone in her life who knew the relevant details being extremely (and loudly) concerned about her sanity—her therapist had recommended a nice, long tropical vacation, and various members of the NYPD had supplied her with no less than six panic buttons—and the minor veiled threats that were quickly becoming the norm—"Do you like turtle soup, Joan? I remember Sherlock and I having dinner at a Singaporean restaurant in the West End that specialized in it. I've had better, but he enjoyed it."—Joan's nerves were fraying nearly to the breaking point. And while it was incredibly disturbing to have _that much _attention paid to her every move, whatever was going on was clearly keeping the two of them distracted from other, almost certainly more disturbing plots.

Plus, the benefits were nice: warm, clean towels in the bathroom every time she went upstairs for a shower; exactly the right coat and shoes waiting by the front door every time she made to leave the house; precisely the meal she would have chosen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, before she even knew that it was what she wanted.

Sherlock even bought a new, sharper blade for the blender in the kitchen, something he'd been promising to do for weeks but hadn't ever followed through on.

"I decided it was time, Watson," he announced while proudly showing her the repaired blender, six mornings after Moriarty's unexpected arrival and three days since both of them had begun being abnormally considerate of Joan. "You've taken to running more and longer than usual over the past week, and if this trend continues, you'll need additional fuel to replenish your diminished glycogen levels."

Joan smiled at him, genuinely pleased. "Thanks, Sherlock," she offered, peering inside the blender at the incredibly shiny blade. "I haven't been buying too many smoothie ingredients lately, but I'll have to stop at the market later and see if they have any—"

"Blueberries?" Moriarty interjected from her place at the counter, where she'd been sitting with her cup of coffee, watching the entire interaction. "There's a fresh pint in the refrigerator, as well as some spinach and strawberries from the farmer's market." She smiled dazzlingly at Joan. "Have you tried adding greens to your smoothies? It's an excellent way to add them to your diet, and it doesn't affect the taste at all."

"Which, of course, is only made possible by the presence of a blender in the first place," Sherlock added, shooting a cutting look at Moriarty before smiling at Joan as well. "The salesclerk assured me that the blade will outlive its warranty, but I saved the receipt in the event that he was incorrect. Now—"

"One could always make a salad with fruits and vegetables," Moriarty mused, her nonchalant tone betrayed by the fact that she'd interrupted Sherlock in order to use it, "thereby bypassing the blender altogether."

"Nevertheless," Sherlock replied, his voice clipped, "you wouldn't have thought to purchase them in the first place had it not been for the blender." He nodded to himself, clearly satisfied by his point.

Moriarty sat up on her stool, eyes sparkling.

Joan put the blender back on the counter. "And that's my cue to leave," she said, backing up toward the doorway. "Let me—actually, no, don't let me know when you're done with your little spat. I really, really don't want to know why the two of you have been making me your lab rat this week; I'll probably never sleep again."

Both heads whipped to look at her, nearly identical expressions of surprise on their faces.

Joan stared back. "You're not exactly subtle," she pointed out sardonically.

Moriarty, probably because she'd never been the recipient of a basketball to the head via Joan, was the first to recover. "Have you been having trouble sleeping?" she asked politely, settling back onto her stool. "I've found that memory foam pillows—"

"Of course you have," Joan grumbled, walking out and leaving a bickering Moriarty and Sherlock behind.

There was not enough alcohol in the _world._


	3. Chapter 3

Slight warnings for this chapter (see bottom for details); nothing more serious/graphic than on the show itself.

* * *

"_How is everything going, then?" _Captain Gregson asked over the phone one night—a question that Joan was getting used to hearing, and not only because a pair of bodyguards and twice-daily personal check-ins had been mandated by the NYPD for the duration of Moriarty's stay.

Not that Joan was complaining.

"Not so bad, now that the two of them have quit trying to deduce me like it's some kind of weird competitive sport," she sighed, tying her hair up into a ponytail and glancing out her bedroom window at the nondescript unmarked car that was parked outside, no doubt containing two of New York's finest (and currently, at least, unluckiest). "I'm trying not to let my guard down, but it's exhausting, being on alert 24 hours a day," she admitted. "Especially when she really hasn't done anything explicitly criminal yet."

"_That we know of," _Captain Gregson added darkly. _"Listen, Joan, you know that I'd have you out of there in a heartbeat if I thought that you or that thick-headed partner of yours would listen, but if you insist on staying there, you need to promise me that you're being careful. We both know what she's capable of."_

Joan sighed again. "I know, and I am," she assured him. "And for what it's worth, I think—"

Whatever she was thinking, Captain Gregson never found out—startled by a loud shriek from downstairs, Joan dropped her phone, cracking the casing and sending the battery bouncing across the throw rug on the floor.

Barely sparing the pieces a glance, Joan flew across the room and threw open the door. Pausing instinctively in the doorway, she listened as heavy footsteps sounded across the floorboards below, paused briefly, then grew louder as they pounded in her direction. "Watson!" she heard Sherlock call from the foot of the stairs, startled and slightly winded but sounding unhurt. "Watson, we need you!"

Letting out a strangled breath—she hadn't realized how afraid she'd been for Sherlock until after he'd yelled her name, proving that he was all right—Joan hurried across the hall and down the stairs.

Sherlock was waiting for her, paler than usual. "Moriarty dropped a knife in the kitchen and slashed her arm quite badly," he explained, his voice clipped and impatient as he rushed her down the last few steps and across the room. "She may require stitches. Perhaps a trip to the hospital, if you think it necessary, though I doubt she'd go in for any painkillers worth the name."

"What was she doing with a knife?" Joan asked warily, following Sherlock into the kitchen and taking in the sight of Moriarty, face pale and ashen, clutching a bloodstained towel to her left arm with crimson-streaked fingers.

Joan paused, staring. If she hadn't known better—and she absolutely did—she would have said that Moriarty looked almost…afraid.

Clearly having heard the question, Moriarty attempted a shaky, rueful smile. "Making dinner," she explained with a nod toward the cutting board on the opposite counter, which was heaped with a pile of cut vegetables. She shifted uneasily on her stool, grasping her injured arm closer to her chest. "Just my ill luck that I had your knives sharpened yesterday, I suppose."

Joan's stomach dropped. "You had our knives sharpened," she stated flatly, her esteem for the officers parked outside diminishing rapidly. "As in, walked out of the brownstone and all around the city with a large number of lethal weapons."

Moriarty frowned. "I waited until you were out; I know how the sight of me with anything more dangerous than a toothpick tends to alarm you," she pointed out, voice bordering on petulant. "And given that _you _are more than likely going to be sewing up _my _arm, rather than the other way around, I'd say I have slightly more cause to complain about that decision at the moment than you do, wouldn't you agree?"

Joan opened her mouth, not entirely sure how to respond, but determined to keep Moriarty from having the last word anyway.

It didn't turn out to matter, in the end—that was the moment the NYPD, alarmed by Captain Gregson's frantic call reporting a scream and a dead telephone connection that was now going straight to voicemail, chose to break down the front door.

* * *

In the ensuing half an hour, it was determined that: Joan and Sherlock were both fine, Moriarty was less fine but was determined not to go to the hospital ("What is the point of living with a former surgeon if she can't stitch a small cut?" she wondered aloud, echoing Sherlock so uncannily that Joan silently vowed to sweep for bugs—again—the next time she was home alone), the front door would fit back in its frame but would _definitely_ be needing repairs before it functioned as a door again, the NYPD was a bit sheepish but not at all sorry for their course of action, considering the circumstances, and that Sherlock, a credible actor when he put his mind to it, nevertheless couldn't even begin to disguise his delight over all the chaos, even as he pretended to be miffed over the damage to his foyer.

Joan, battling an oncoming migraine and applying a topical disinfectant to Moriarty's wound as Sherlock sterilized her tools, was somewhat less delighted.

"Has the numbness set in yet?" she asked Moriarty professionally, if a bit shortly, referring to the local anesthetic she'd injected around the site minutes before.

Moriarty smiled distractedly, staring at her arm. "I can barely feel it," she acknowledged, eyes flicking up briefly at Joan before looking back down. "Forgive me for asking," she continued lazily, head drooping forward slightly as Joan adjusted her injured arm on the table in front of her, "but you've a number of syringes in your home surgery kit—is that standard procedure? They're quite useful, obviously, but I would think you'd find it a conflict of interest, keeping them in the house as you do."

Sherlock's back stiffened slightly, but he otherwise ignored the jab, and Joan followed suit. "Let's just leave it at 'you're fortunate I had them'," she offered, examining her latex gloves for holes a second time instead of glaring at Moriarty, the way she would have done if it hadn't been transparent that Moriarty was trying to distract herself from the pain. "And, for the record? I still think you should have this done at a hospital—they have better materials, and insurance would cover any follow-up care you end up needing."

Sherlock turned, holding a tray of neatly-arranged medical instruments in front of him. "Don't devalue yourself, Watson," he admonished, gazing at her with an expression that was almost proud as he set the tools down carefully on the table. "She does beautiful work," he informed Moriarty, "and you're quite lucky to have the opportunity to experience it firsthand."

Moriarty smiled at him. "Dire though the circumstances may be," she agreed, before turning back to Joan. "Hospital paperwork is beyond tedious, even at the best of times," she explained ruefully. "And even if it wasn't, Sherlock doesn't give praise lightly, as you know. I would hardly deprive myself of the opportunity to watch the master at work."

Joan, sure she was being baited but unable to prove it, said nothing.

Sherlock glanced back and forth between the two of them expectantly. "May I be of assistance in any way?" he inquired, sounding more sincerely enthusiastic by far than was warranted by the situation.

Inwardly, Joan rolled her eyes—as if there was any sort of social protocol for a situation that involved stitching up a criminal mastermind at their kitchen table. Outwardly, she nodded toward the seat to her right. "Sit down over there and hold her hand?" she suggested. "It'll help keep her arm steady while I'm working, even if you don't seem like the type to flinch at needles."

The last remark was directed at Moriarty, who merely raised an eyebrow in response. Sherlock sat in the seat Joan had indicated opposite Moriarty and took her outstretched hand between the two of his, his grip gentle as he anchored her wrist to the table.

Joan set to work. "It's not as deep as I first thought, but it's still pretty deep," she explained, leaning closer as she pierced the thin skin of Moriarty's forearm. "Three stitches should do it. You were lucky—any deeper, and you probably would have lacerated an artery."

Moriarty's arm shifted minutely beneath Joan's hands as she closed the first stitch and snipped the loose thread. Though she hadn't said anything as Joan's needle weaved her skin together, her grip on Sherlock's hand had tightened and, out of the corner of her eye, Joan watched as Sherlock returned the gesture.

"Did that hurt at all?" she asked Moriarty, a little more sympathetically than before. "I can give you another shot of the painkillers, if you need it."

Moriarty shook her head, a stray curl falling across her cheek. "Bit of a disconnect, really," she explained, brushing it away impatiently with her free hand. "I can see it and feel that it ought to hurt, but it's only pressure."

If she was lying, it would hardly be the first time a patient had done so to avoid looking weak. Taking Moriarty at her word for the moment, Joan nodded as she began her second stitch, Sherlock leaning forward to watch attentively. "I hear that a lot," she acknowledged, focusing on her hands as they worked instinctively, many years of practice behind their movements. "Not everyone can look, because the visual alters their perception of the pain. Makes it worse."

Moriarty scoffed, presumably at the stupidity of anyone who would let their senses detrimentally distort reality.

Even so, she continued to cling tightly to Sherlock's hand as Joan worked, holding on until after Joan clipped the thread on the final stitch.

"I'll need to look at it again in the morning, just to monitor it," Joan ordered, cleaning the closed wound carefully but efficiently before dressing it in sterile gauze. "Try to avoid sleeping on it if you can, and tell me right away if it starts to hurt more than it should."

Moriarty let go of Sherlock's hand and wiggled her fingers absently, staring at her bandaged arm in fascination. "And if it needs tending to in the middle of the night?" she wondered laconically, not sparing Joan a glance. "Shall I wake you then, or will you be cross with me for entering your room?"

Joan didn't react. "My good will doesn't extend that far," she answered pointedly, collecting her medical supplies and arranging them in her bag the way she liked them. "In fact, let me be very clear—unless someone in this house is going to die within ten minutes without my medical intervention, I am completely off-limits between midnight and 7am. If you need help during that time, the NYPD is literally steps away from the door, and there's a very good 24-hour hospital clinic three blocks east of here."

Moriarty looked at Sherlock, who nodded enthusiastically. "Watson has shouted at me on numerous occasions to avail myself of their services," he confirmed, "and their reputation is stellar.

"Of course," he added, "in many instances, Watson's insistence stemmed from my injuries being somewhat…_beyond_ what she feels ought to be treated in an at-home setting. In your case, I suspect that Watson's reticence has more to do with her reluctance to allow you any exploitable loopholes through which you could gain access to her boudoir in the middle of the night."

Moriarty turned back to Joan, eyebrow raised.

Joan shrugged. "That, and I hate people waking me up before dawn," she explained without a trace of apology.

Moriarty smiled.

Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Yes, takeout, excellent suggestion," he decided, either not realizing or not caring that nobody had actually suggested anything. "Shall I fetch a menu, or will everyone be having their usual?"

* * *

As Sherlock ordered dinner—testing out his Thai on the hapless employees at Bangkok Gardens—Joan cleaned and put away the last of her tools. Moriarty watched her with hooded, tired eyes.

"Sherlock is correct, you know," she said suddenly, making Joan pause. "You really do do beautiful work."

Joan looked over, searching her face for insincerity, but found nothing. "Thank you," she replied quietly. Moriarty nodded in response, and Joan closed her medical bag and hefted it over her shoulder, intending to take it back up to her room.

When she reached the doorway, though, she paused. "We don't keep much here, because of Sherlock," Joan found herself saying. "But there are extra-strength painkillers behind the mirror in the bathroom upstairs, and we can figure out a way to make it work if you need something stronger."

If Moriarty was surprised by the offer, she didn't show it. "I'll keep it in mind," she answered, stretching her injured arm with a slight wince before looking back at Joan, expression unreadable. "It appears that I am in your debt this evening, Joan Watson."

Her gaze lingered on Joan's face, long after Joan left the room.

* * *

Living with two genius-caliber intellects, while certainly a daily lesson in perspective, nevertheless didn't take away from Joan's own considerable abilities—she was not a stupid person, nor an unobservant one. And whatever their talents, Joan knew that her medical knowledge, after years of schooling, residency, and practical experience, easily outstripped that of everyone else in the brownstone.

Joan also knew that both Sherlock and Moriarty tended to underestimate her, despite Moriarty's irritated vow not to make the same mistake twice, and Sherlock's occasional proffers of respect.

It was the combination of the two—her specialized knowledge, and its frequent undervaluing by the two people who really should have known better—that made the situation more complicated than it was at first glance; complicated enough that it kept Joan restless and awake long into the night, despite her fruitless efforts to fall asleep.

Because Joan's professional opinion, had her patient been anyone else, was that based on the depth, angle, and serration pattern of the knife wound, there was a very good chance—around 90%, give or take—that the accident in the kitchen hadn't been an accident at all.

It was possible that Moriarty knew that Joan would have known that. It was also possible that Moriarty would assume that Joan, whose medical expertise was more focused on surgical incisions than on fairly shallow lacerations, wouldn't figure it out. Depending on what expectations and assumptions Moriarty held about her, and at what level she was playing her game, the _why _of the situation could be nearly anything: garnered sympathy, misdirection, confusion. Deliberately constructing mindgames, just to see what Joan would do. And that was before factoring in Sherlock, who didn't have the medical knowledge that Joan did, but nonetheless potentially knew either Joan or Moriarty well enough to deduce what they knew—or what they thought they might know—about the other's state of mind.

Or it was possible that it really had just been an accident, and that Joan was overthinking everything. Or that it really had just been an accident, but Joan wasn't overthinking anything because if anyone was capable of twisting a situation to suit her own purposes, it was Moriarty.

Joan was not at all surprised that she was having trouble sleeping.

Noticing that the sky outside her window looked less dark than she remembered, Joan rolled over and glanced at the clock. It was 5:47am, and so far Moriarty had stuck to her word and had left Joan alone. Whatever that meant.

Sighing heavily, Joan sat up, dragging back the covers of her bed and twisting until her feet hit the floor. It was nearly light enough to head out for a run, which, if nothing else, would give her at least an hour away from the brownstone and its plethora of intellectually superior but emotionally stunted lunatics.

The second that Moriarty was out of New York, she was going to lock her door and sleep for a week. And if Sherlock tried to stop her…

Well, she was pretty sure that most of the cops at the precinct liked her better. It probably wouldn't be too hard to convince one of them to arrest him for a few days.

* * *

(TW for potential self-harm)


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for all the nice comments-it's slow going these days (this chapter was all about the feels) but we're crawling alone.

Onward and upward, friends.

* * *

In retrospect, Joan probably should have known better, she who was familiar enough with Sherlock's bizarre texting style to have detected a fake message mere weeks after they had met, resulting in Sherlock's rescue from his kidnapping would-be murderer.

Still, the text she had received right as she was leaving her mother's house, her late morning visit mercifully concluded, didn't seem particularly unusual for him. If anything, it was even more succinct than usual—an address about three blocks from the brownstone, abbreviated almost to the point of illegibility, and the simple directive '_Come'_. Nothing to explain the weird, twisting paranoia that was lingering on the edge of her mind, even as she texted back an '_on my way' _and hurried down to the train platform.

_It's probably just because we haven't taken a real case since Moriarty showed up, _she reasoned with herself, dutifully getting off of the train one stop early and taking a left out of the station instead of bearing right. And it was true—obviously reluctant to compromise any ongoing investigations, Captain Gregson had temporarily benched Joan and Sherlock as consultants, to be reinstated upon Moriarty's departure. In the interim, they'd had to make do with referrals; paying cases that were excellent for their bank accounts, if generally more boring than their usual work.

Nothing they'd worked on in over a week had necessitated visiting a crime scene, and certainly not with the urgency that Sherlock's text had implicitly indicated. If she was being summoned to an unknown location without even a hint of an explanation, then something must have changed.

* * *

The address that Sherlock had sent turned out to be an upscale café that Joan had passed by dozens of times before but had never actually eaten at—and probably never would, if they'd been called to the scene because some unfortunate employee had had their throat slit in the kitchen. Hurrying to cross the street before the light changed, Joan ducked around a woman with a jogging stroller and made a beeline for the heavy glass door, pulling it open with both arms before slipping inside.

The café was warm and tastefully decorated, with a color scheme of creams and reds that Joan approved of. Though the space was larger than she would have guessed it was, looking at it from the outside, the plush armchairs arranged around each table and the ornate fireplace on the right wall gave the café a cozy appearance that Joan immediately liked.

It was also completely devoid of Sherlock. Instead, Moriarty was seated in a neatly-upholstered armchair facing the entrance, an open bottle of red wine on the table in front of her.

Not for the first time since Moriarty had made her reappearance, Joan cursed herself for failing to follow her instincts.

Moriarty was smiling brightly, clearly having noticed that Joan had spotted her. "Joan, you made it," she announced cheerfully, setting her glass down on the white linen tablecloth and gesturing toward the seat opposite her. "Please, do join me."

Without pausing to reconsider, Joan obeyed. "Where's Sherlock?" she demanded, her tone betraying nothing of the wariness she'd felt since her phone had first chimed with the text, now taking on a concrete form.

Moriarty continued to smile, as if she'd sensed it anyway. "At home, I expect," she answered, picking up the empty glass at Joan's place setting and pouring her a glass of wine. "He was showering when I left, but I imagine he's out by now. Drink? It's one of mine; several steps removed, of course."

Joan ignored her. "You texted me from Sherlock's phone," she stated flatly, not asking a question so much as seeking confirmation.

She received it. "And erased the message after," Moriarty agreed, taking a sip of wine from her own glass. "Which gives us at least half an hour before he deduces our location and comes storming in here to rescue you." She gestured at Joan's glass with her own. "The yelling could be spectacular; you may want to fortify yourself in preparation."

Joan shook her head. "I'm not staying," she informed Moriarty coolly, shifting her purse higher up on her shoulder and standing up. "Next time, text me from your own phone."

Moriarty remained nonplussed. "You'd have ignored it," she reproached Joan mildly. "And it's not as if my intentions were untoward—I merely wished to thank you for your assistance the other day, and I knew that bringing anything alcoholic into the house would upset you. Sherlock's delicate sobriety and all."

Moriarty glanced down at her arm and, in spite of herself, Joan found her eyes doing the same. Moriarty's sleeves were long—not unusual, given the damp October weather—and if she hadn't known it was there, Joan might have missed the slight bulge of the protective bandage guarding her stitches underneath the fabric.

When Joan looked up, Moriarty was watching her. "You can ask, you know," she offered gently, pulling her arm from the table and settling back into her armchair as if it were a throne. "I know you've wondered."

Joan met her gaze. "It's none of my business," she pointed out, sitting back down and silently acknowledging that she had wondered about the incident that had resulted in Moriarty bleeding profusely on their kitchen counter.

More often than she'd care to admit, certainly. "I'm not your doctor."

Moriarty shrugged carelessly. "No one is; I don't currently have one," she replied, twisting the thin stem of her wineglass between her fingers without picking it up. "But seeing as it's your handiwork holding my arm together, I suppose you may as well enjoy proprietary rights for the moment. Ask away."

Joan paused, then plunged ahead anyway—it was hardly as if complying with Moriarty's request would make things any _more _awkward. "All right," she agreed. "Have you thought about getting some kind of psychiatric help? I know it might be impossible, finding someone discreet that you couldn't run rings around, but even if you couldn't tell the whole truth…"

Joan trailed off at the sight of Moriarty's face: far from looking angry or offended, as Joan half expected, Moriarty's eyes were glittering, as if Christmas had come early. "Not quite what I had anticipated," she admitted, smiling dazzlingly across the table at Joan. "My dear Watson, do you mean to say that you've been worried about me?"

Something inside Joan snapped at the obvious condescension. "I don't know what to feel about you," she replied frankly, her voice cold with anger over being toyed with by Moriarty yet again. "I can't even tell if there's anyone _there_ half the time, underneath all the arrogance and manipulation, or if you're actually as detached from everything and everyone as you pretend to be. How could I possibly be worried about you, when I can't even tell which one of your elaborate smokescreens is the real you?"

At some point during Joan's scathing commentary, Moriarty's face had gone dangerously blank and shuttered. In contrast to Joan, whose muscles were tensed with adrenaline, Moriarty was perfectly still. Her silence swallowed up the background noise of the café, leaving a palpable tension between them, and Joan found that she couldn't look away.

Finally, after a moment that stretched on for eons, something in Moriarty's gaze unlocked as she looked down at the tablecloth, then back up at Joan. "I can't change what I am, you know," she said quietly, her voice low enough that Joan felt herself leaning forward slightly in order to catch every word. "Nor do I want to. You must know that by now."

Joan bit the inside of her lip. "People do change, though," she pointed out, matching the softness of Moriarty's tone. "You and Sherlock are so alike, you've said, but he's a much different person now than when I first met him."

Moriarty scoffed, watching her fingernail as it ran idly along the white linen of the tablecloth. "I am substantially less malleable than Sherlock has ever been," she explained, her voice curiously free of the haughtiness that the words implied, as if she were merely stating a fact. "I am far less inclined to let my actions be dictated by the whims of others."

She looked back up at Joan, a chilly, unfathomable expression darkening her features. "You can't understand what it's like," she informed Joan coolly. "You think you do because you've beaten me once, because you live with him." Her eyes flashed. "I don't _miss _things, Joan," she continued, leaning forward to stare at Joan hungrily, palms pressed flat to the table. "I don't miss things, and I missed you. Sherlock slept with me for months, and never saw that I had given birth. He conversed with me for hours at a time, and never once detected that I was fabricating my accent—then and now, for the record. His blind spots are _cavernous_, and yet he saw something in you that I, for all my superiority in every way that matters, did not. What a curious wonder you are, Joan Watson, to turn us on our own heads in the way you've done."

Joan sat quietly. Almost nothing that Moriarty had said was new information to her, but never before had she seen Moriarty so…affected by any of it. Either she was letting her veneer slip—maybe as a direct response to Joan's accusation—or she was redoubling her bluff, and Joan sensed that how the conversation ended, and whether or not Moriarty continued with their uneasy détente, rested entirely on Joan's reaction to it.

Joan was smart enough to choose her words carefully.

"I won't be your game," she said, quietly but firmly, and watched as Moriarty sat back up and paid attention. "If I feel that you're trying to make me into one again, I will personally pack your things. There are some very good women's shelters in the area, and we both know that any enemy you have would be far more likely to look at Sherlock and I to find you than to look there.

"Plus," she added, "they all have metal detectors, so I'm guessing fewer people have gotten shot at or stabbed there than in the brownstone."

Moriarty continued to watch Joan for a moment, her eyes searching Joan's face for something.

Joan kept her expression carefully neutral.

In the end, Moriarty nodded slowly. "Duly noted," she allowed, a tiny smile gracing her lips.

Joan nodded back, then pressed on. "He denies it, but he still loves you," she admitted carefully to Moriarty—who, more likely than not, was more surprised by the confession itself than by the information it contained. "Loves what you were to him once, at least. I'm not interested in making you admit that you feel the same," she continued, a small, secret part of her warming in satisfaction as Moriarty's eyebrow arched in shock at _that_. "I don't need your validation. But I do need your promise that you won't intentionally hurt him again. He doesn't deserve that."

For all that Joan had taken Moriarty aback, she recovered quickly, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hand; a childish gesture that made her appear impossibly younger. "I've had access to your house for nearly two weeks now," she pointed out, almost petulantly, to Joan. "Don't you think that if I had any intention of hurting Sherlock, I'd have done so by now?"

Joan remained unmoved by the protest. "That wasn't a promise," she countered, and watched as Moriarty smiled approvingly at her.

"Very well," Moriarty replied lightly, sitting back up and reaching for her wineglass. "I have no plans or desire to hurt Sherlock, or you, for the duration of my stay. Should that change, I'll be sure to give you ample enough warning, but I don't expect that to come up—I merely wish to anticipate such a contingency so that I can be certain of my promise."

Joan fought the urge to roll her eyes at such a bureaucratic loophole of a threat. "Good," she said instead, with a slight nod.

Moriarty nodded back. "Good," she echoed, glancing at the door before smiling back at Joan.

The door—Joan realized suddenly that nearly twenty minutes had passed since she had arrived. "I should go," she said abruptly, checking the phone in her pocket for any genuine messages from Sherlock—and almost missing the flash of disappointment on Moriarty's face as she did so.

Moriarty again recovered quickly. "If you must," she sighed, leaning back in her armchair and checking her own phone. "I have some business to take care of in the city today; don't expect me back before dinner."

Joan felt a rush of nausea at the thought of Moriarty's 'business' and deliberately chose not to respond, standing up and straightening her coat and purse instead.

Moriarty gazed up at her. "Are you going to tell him?" she wondered curiously, tilting her head slightly. "About our little meeting."

Joan paused, her hands still clutching the top button of her coat.

Sherlock was sure to know that Joan was hiding something from him if she didn't say anything, as he almost always did, or work out that she was lying if she made up something about where she'd gone after leaving her mother's apartment. Telling the truth, however—that far from walking away once she'd realized she'd been tricked, Joan had stayed for a chat over a bottle of wine (never mind that she hadn't had any herself)—would hardly come across any better.

Then, also, was the unpleasant realization that Moriarty was making Joan wish that she could lie to Sherlock and get away with it.

Joan brushed the thought away irritably. "I don't know," she answered, before turning around and heading for the door.

And if her answer was more abrupt than she had meant to make it, well. Moriarty, in her fashion, had probably already deduced why.

Joan only made it halfway to the door before Moriarty called her name, just loud enough for her to hear it. Joan considered ignoring her and going home, but sighed instead, turning back impatiently. "What?" she replied, allowing her exasperation to color her tone.

Moriarty was smiling. "You like me, you know," she informed Joan serenely.

Joan blinked rapidly. "Excuse me?" she demanded, completely bewildered by the accusation.

Moriarty continued to smile. "You hate that you do—it kills you, after all that I've done, and all that you suspect that I will do. But you like me, nonetheless."

Joan swallowed, taking a second to collect herself. When she spoke again, her voice was surprisingly even. "For Sherlock's sake, I tolerate your presence," she told Moriarty. "And I don't loathe you the way that I did before you went to prison. Don't push it."

This time, Moriarty didn't stop her when she walked away.

* * *

Between stopping at the pharmacy to restock on bandages and disinfectant, and running into a neighbor who had accidentally received some of Sherlock's mail (despite having 'just seen it two seconds ago', it had taken the woman five minutes to find the three envelopes buried under a week's worth of newspapers), it took Joan nearly half an hour to cover the relatively short distance between Moriarty's café and the brownstone. When she finally did traipse up the front steps and unlock the door, she found that Moriarty had indeed gone elsewhere, leaving Sherlock home alone with his pile of cold cases—which, in Joan's absence, had become less of a pile and more of a semicircle of manila folders spread out on the living room floor, in the middle of which sat a shirtless, meditating Sherlock, eyes closed and hands balanced delicately on his knees.

It was truly a testament to Joan's life that that barely even registered as weird.

Sherlock didn't bother opening his eyes at the sound of Joan's greeting, remaining perfectly calm and still as she hung up her fall coat—she'd have to switch to a winter one, sooner rather than later—and slid her shoes off.

"How was your visit?" he asked instead, tilting his head to the side with an audible crack.

Joan hummed noncommittally, crossing over to the table on the far side of the room, where Clyde was perched far too close to the edge for comfort. "The usual," she answered absently, intercepting Clyde and redirecting him toward his pile of lettuce. "She's thinking of going to France on vacation next summer, though, so don't be surprised when she calls you for 'an insider's' recommendation on everything."

Sherlock hummed back, not deigning to comment, even to remind Joan that he was never surprised by anything.

"And Moriarty's ambush, how did that go?" he wondered in place of a response, his voice clipped and precise in a model of disinterest.

Joan, not even a little shocked that he had somehow worked out where she had been, saw right through his attitude. "Clearly more surprising to me than it was to you," she noted dryly, reassuring herself that Clyde was happily resettled and munching away before sitting down in the closest chair and looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock's ears reddened slightly. "Ah," he offered neutrally, unfolding himself from his lotus position on the floor and climbing to his feet.

Joan raised an eyebrow, waiting.

It didn't take long. "I...may have kept an eye on your meeting," Sherlock admitted uncomfortably after a moment, his posture stiffer than usual as he avoided looking at Joan. "There's a bodega owner on the same block who lives above his shop, and who was once erroneously accused of attempting to poison his wife with a rare plant from their window box of exotic flora. I was able to prove that the culprit was, in fact, the head chef at a nearby pizzeria—now shut down, of course. The exonerated bodega owner, in return, often allows me the use of his living room and amateur astronomy equipment without the requisite unnecessary questions."

Joan took a second to parse through the detailed explanation.

"You know a guy who lets you spy on people with his telescope, and doesn't find it offputtingly creepy," she summarized flatly, crossing her legs and sitting back in her chair.

Sherlock waved impatiently. "Incorrect in part—he finds it very 'creepy', but gratitude for my assistance allows him to ignore it without difficulty—but otherwise admirably succinct."

When Joan didn't respond, he squirmed guiltily. "I assure you, I had no intention of violating your sense of privacy or spying on you without your knowledge," he offered, swinging his arms hesitantly. "I was merely concerned when Moriarty went to some lengths to secure your company alone and under false pretenses—although clearly not enough, since she was only partially successful—and only followed her to ensure your continued wellbeing."

Joan, who wasn't actually offended, but as a rule considered it a public service to encourage Sherlock's occasional displays of humility or recognition of his too-eager willingness to overstep boundaries, kept her face blank. "You thought she was going to kidnap me?"

Sherlock looked at her seriously in response. "She had a minion point a gun at you in order to secure your cooperation in the past," he reminded her soberly. "I wouldn't expect her to repeat herself, but I would be remiss in ignoring what she is, and what she is capable of."

At Joan's compassionate expression, Sherlock turned away. "In any case," he added, "I was prepared to step in, had you indicated in any way that your safety had been compromised, but you seemed to be handling the situation in such a way that did not necessitate my interference."

It was not a rebuke, but a veiled inquiry, and Joan nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. "No, it was…fine," she assured him, staring past him unseeingly at the window as she thought about her conversation with Moriarty, barely an hour before. "Unsettling, maybe, but not unsafe."

It was Sherlock's turn to be silent, and Joan let the quiet between them stretch for a minute before asking the question that had been in the back of her mind since Moriarty's arrival. "Does it…" she began, pausing briefly before pressing on, "is it hard? Having her here, I mean. After everything."

Sherlock froze for half a second, before stretching his shoulders carelessly. "It's hardly the worst situation that I could be in," he allowed, more lightly than the answer warranted. "Think of it: we could be living with the late Sebastian Moran right now, had he turned out to be my arch nemesis."

Joan made a face at the thought, and Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile.

Picking up the again-wayward Clyde, Sherlock tucked him gently into the crook of his arm. "You needn't be concerned about me, Watson," he told her, still cavalier, but with a look on his face that told Joan that he was attempting to be sincere. "I am not so foolish as to believe that Moriarty will ever cease to be…significant, in some manner. But she doesn't hold the same power over me that she once did. I can survive—and indeed, thrive—without her."

He smiled faintly at Joan, before looking back down at Clyde. "Quite frankly, I have more in my life now than I did when I suffered the initial loss of Irene. If she wished to break me again, I rather suspect she'd have to try significantly harder this time around."

* * *

For what felt like the 10,000th time since she'd moved in, Sherlock woke Joan up in the middle of the night. And, for what felt like around the 4,000th time, Joan was fairly certain that it was unintentional—unless her sleep-fogged imagination was wrong, and he was actually shouting at _her _in Burmese instead of the unlucky person on the other end of the phone line.

She shifted slightly to glance at the clock, not bothering to stifle her groan when she saw that it was well past 3am—far beyond being the middle of the night, it was practically a brand new day.

The thought gave Joan pause. A new day meant that it had been two weeks exactly since Moriarty's arrival on their doorstep, requesting sanctuary for a time period that everyone down to the NYPD had agreed would be significantly shorter than that.

So how was it that, when she and Sherlock had been discussing Moriarty and her presence in their lives just that afternoon, her leaving had never come up in the conversation?


	5. Chapter 5

So this chapter got a little...experimental. Between that and my 'a' key suddenly going on the spaz, this took longer than intended. I'm sorry; you're all pretty.

No out and out warnings, but those squeamish re: bodily functions should see the bottom for details on section II.

* * *

_I. Sherlock._

The setting was, in itself, not noticeably different than many another evening in the brownstone. Sherlock was ensconced in his armchair, staring at the various papers and newsprint and red yarn tacked up on the evidence board above the fireplace, the light sound of a pen skimming across a sheaf of paper at Watson's preferred worktable humming placidly in the back of his mind.

Only two fairly important details altered the tableau, making the scene somewhat more unusual. The first was that, rather than Watson, it was Moriarty who was scratching away in her notebook across the room, sharing his domestic sphere.

The second was a direct result of the first: every piece of 'evidence' that Sherlock had been staring at for upward of three hours was, in fact, a blank sheet of paper, appropriately sized and placed in a relevant location.

The crime itself was fairly pedestrian—sixty million dollars gone suddenly missing from a high profile insurance outfit, board of directors petrified of public relations fallout, etc., etc. Sherlock had bet that the case which forced Captain Gregson to reconsider his stance on his and Watson's participation in the NYPD's investigations would be a more urgent matter—an unsolved kidnapping, a serial murderer, an imminent bomb threat. He'd failed to take into account his own reputation, grown notorious in the Financial District for his successes, and the possibility of the company contacts begging for his personal involvement.

Bit of a stupid oversight on his part, really, but a forgivable one.

The tangible case files were in situ at the precinct, a condition placed on his involvement by Captain Gregson. "We're walking a fine enough line letting you work on the case at all, with that woman living in your house," he'd explained gravely, clearly displeased at being persuaded to override his own sound judgment. "As it is, the first thing a good defense attorney is going to argue is that your…_situation_ may have compromised the investigation."

Because Sherlock actually agreed with Captain Gregson's assessment, annoying as it may have been, he settled for a dramatic rolling of the eyes and a single pithy comment deriding the American justice system before acquiescing. The work remained the same, regardless—years of honing his ability to observe meant that Sherlock could work just as easily, if admittedly at a somewhat slower pace, without needing the information placed directly under his nose.

Unlike some people—Watson—who were no longer responding to his text messages the very few times—five—it would have sped along the process immensely to have one little fact checked in the case file.

"I was at the precinct until 5:30, like I said I'd be," she'd chided him rather unreasonably, when he'd texted her to confirm that the singular secretary who'd had access to his boss's calendar password resided on Park _Street _and not Park _Avenue_, only to hear her phone chiming on the front steps as she fished through her purse for her keys. "Now I am going out to dinner, also like I said I'd be doing. You can manage on your own for three hours. And before you ask, 'everyone at the precinct keeps hanging up when I call' isn't an emergency; it's a sign that maybe you should work on your interpersonal skills."

Sherlock hadn't argued the point. Not because Watson was in any way correct, but because he'd borrowed her laptop while she'd been in the shower that morning, and had cracked the latest password on her dating website. After vetting her dinner date for the evening, Sherlock was confident in anticipating Watson's arrival back home about an hour earlier than she'd suggested.

(The man had a boring career, an only mildly handsome face, and a narcissistic streak a mile wide—too many 'I' statements in his profile. Watson would endure the meal out of an ingrained sense of politeness, but wouldn't stay to linger over coffee or a nightcap.)

There was a time in the past when Sherlock would have felt obligated to point out his analysis in advance, in order to save Watson two hours that could have been spent in a more enjoyable and productive manner than on a mediocre date with an insipid bore. Trial and repeated error, however, had resigned him to silence.

"That's the fifth sigh you've let out in as many minutes," Moriarty observed in a disinterested tone, not bothering to look up from her writing. "Having trouble with the investigation, or are you merely brooding?"

Sherlock frowned.

Apparently not silent enough.

"I am not _brooding_," he corrected, somewhat more moodily than he intended. "I am expressing my frustration in an audible manner in order to work it out of my system and deny it the continued ability to serve as a distraction."

"Right," Moriarty replied dryly. "How could I have confused the two?"

Sherlock didn't respond, choosing to ignore the rhetorical question in favor of his rhetorical work.

A minute later, however, he sighed without thinking about it, and Moriarty put down her pen. "It's clearly not the case that has you this high strung," she observed, looking at Sherlock appraisingly. "Tell me, is it Joan being gone, or Joan being gone on a _date,_ that you find more distasteful?"

Sherlock shot her an ugly look, but saw no need to lie to the one person who understood his feelings on the matter better than anyone else. "You already know the answer to that," he pointed out. "I have no issue with Watson seeking social connections outside of our work together—given how often she's made use of them to further our investigations, objecting to it would be hypocritical of me. Rather, I abhor the manner in which she goes about it—unsuccessful dates with unforgivably banal men she meets on the internet—and the amount of cognitive dissonance she spends maintaining the fantasy that she enjoys dating when, in fact, she treats her social outings like a chore that must be endured."

Moriarty nodded sagely. "Would that be the explanation behind the drawer full of flyers for literary clubs and male callboys, then?" she asked, in a far more matter-of-fact tone than Watson herself (and Ms. Hudson, and Alfredo) had.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Her curiosity will win out someday," he insisted archly. "Until then, we endure."

Moriarty looked at him pityingly. "You know you don't actually believe that, Sherlock," she replied, at least doing Sherlock the courtesy of looking back down at her notebook after attempting to burst his bubble, as it were. "Extraordinary as Watson is, she's not wired like you and I, who only need other people to alleviate the boredom."

She paused. "But if it's any consolation, I suspect Joan will be home rather a bit sooner than she predicted," she added. "Her date seems far too dull and self-important to hold her interest much longer than it will take the pair of them to order dinner."

Sherlock frowned at Moriarty, who rolled her eyes contemptuously. "Spare me your indignation on her behalf," she requested, her tone colored with fond exasperation. "We both know you've done the same."

Sherlock sat up straighter. "Of course I did," he acknowledged shamelessly. "But as her partner, I've earned the right to parse through her things; you have not."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "I think you'll find Joan in disagreement on that front," she pointed out.

Sherlock scowled back, caught. "Watson is resigned to my habitual borrowing of her things without asking," he corrected grudgingly. "Still, she'd undoubtedly be upset to learn that you've done the same. Again, I might add."

Moriarty smiled innocently—though why she bothered when neither she nor Sherlock were even remotely fooled was anyone's guess. "I was merely concerned for Joan's safety, and wanted to investigate her companion in advance," she explained.

Sherlock eyed her skeptically.

Moriarty shrugged gracefully. "Murderers get lonely, too, I'm told," she pointed out.

There wasn't a great deal Sherlock could say to that.

* * *

_II. Joan._

After two years of living in the brownstone, being woken up at all hours of the night was hardly an unusual occurrence for Joan. Usually, though, Sherlock was the one to blame, someone she could focus her annoyance on and mutter breathless obscenities at as she pulled herself out of bed to face whatever latest development it was that had captured his attention.

This time, it was her own body that had forced her, unwanted, into consciousness—a tearing, powerful spasm spreading through her abdomen, and an instinctive awareness that she had only seconds to make it down the hall.

She did make it, but only just, her knees slamming into the tiled floor of the bathroom with a painful, audible crack as she threw up over and over, stomach churning and sweat pouring down her face, hands gripping the porcelain weakly.

* * *

After what seemed like an eternity, and more puking than should have been possible, the pressure in Joan's chest eased slightly. She paused, resting her forehead heavily on her hand and panting with exertion. The tiles were cool under her bare shins, but even though she wanted nothing more than to curl up on the floor until the dizzying, almost violent queasiness passed, she remained still, afraid to move and trigger a second round of vomiting.

"Oh dear, look at you."

Joan didn't look up at the sound of her voice, too exhausted to pretend that she was anything but miserably ill.

_Ill._ The horrific, clenching waves began again and Joan lurched forward, feeling nauseated and hollow as she threw up bile and acid, everything else in her stomach having long been expelled.

Focused on staying upright, Joan didn't notice Moriarty coming into the room—or anything outside of her own wretched body, really—until she felt a cool touch to her forehead, followed by the sensation of fingers threading through her hair, lifting it away from her sweat-soaked face and carding it clumsily but gently into a messy ponytail. The small part of Joan's brain that continued to function despite everything wondered abstractly that someone whose hair always looked perfect no matter what would feel so uncertain when forced to cope with someone else's.

Then her stomach lurched again, and Joan thought of nothing at all.

* * *

Time passed in a haphazard fashion. Joan clung to consciousness as best she could, knowing even without her medical degree that passing out while still vomiting would end dangerously. Still, everything around her was hazy, and it wasn't until several minutes after hearing snippets of their conversation—

"…_would typically ask Watson…"_

"…_getting her to a doctor, or…"_

"…_fluid loss…"_

"…_attempt to take her temperature, but I think…"_

"…_something with electrolytes, at least…"_

"…_will call if anything…"_

—that Joan even realized that Sherlock had been upstairs at all. "Sherlock?" she coughed weakly, another wave of nausea passing over her that thankfully resulted in nothing.

Cool, gentle hands stroked her back hesitantly, as if unsure of their welcome or unused to the motion. "Gone to the bodega to fetch supplies," Moriarty explained. "We thought it best to try and rehydrate you here before attempting to move you to a hospital."

Joan hummed her agreement—movement sounded like a terrible idea. The vibration in her throat, however, triggered another round of coughing, and Moriarty's hands moved to grip her shoulders and hold her in place until it was over. "Let me get you some water to rinse your mouth out with," she suggested and, taking Joan's lack of reaction for the assent that it was, filled a disposable cup with tap water and helped Joan hold it to her mouth as she swirled mouthfuls of water around and spat them back out.

"Better?" Moriarty asked when she had finished, and this time Joan was able to give her a tiny nod without instantly regretting it.

"Thank you," she breathed tiredly, closing her eyes.

Then: "I smell paint."

Moriarty let go of Joan's shoulder. "I was moving my canvases, before you were taken ill," she explained, moving back from Joan until she was sitting against the wall a few feet away.

It felt like a loss, but one Joan wasn't sure she regretted.

"Does the scent bother you?" Moriarty was asking. "I can fulfill my promise to keep you alive until Sherlock gets back from the hallway, if it's making you feel worse."

Joan shook her head minutely. "No, it's good," she assured Moriarty without finesse, too wrung out and tired to explain that the clinical, almost medicinal scent was neutral and grounding in a way that not much else was. "Stay, please."

Moriarty didn't respond. After a minute, though, Joan felt her shifting on the floor behind her. "Is there…" she began, before switching tactics. "What would help you, right now? I haven't had food poisoning since I was a child and Sherlock is something of an idiot with regard to human care, so I'm afraid we're both rather at a loss."

Joan leaned her cheek onto the back of her hand, her face tacky with drying sweat. She swallowed weakly. "Just…keep talking?" she asked, her voice small and meek in a way that would have irritated her if she hadn't felt half dead. "It's distracting; it's good."

If Moriarty thought any less of Joan for the childishness of the entreaty, she was tactful enough to let it go for the moment. "All right," she began slowly. "Any requests? Even if I'm certain you won't remember a shred of this in the morning, I know how opinionated you are."

Joan stifled a groan, leaning heavily on her arm as she tucked her legs more closely underneath her body. "I don't care," she muttered honestly, closing her eyes. "Nothing that would get you arrested, I guess."

Even without seeing Moriarty, Joan could feel her amusement. "That does rather limit my options," Moriarty acknowledged. She paused for a minute, and Joan could hear her shifting again, stretching out into a more comfortable position against the wall.

"Have you ever been to Barcelona?" she asked Joan, who shook her head, cracking her eyes open. Moriarty was smiling beatifically. "It's a beautiful city," she told Joan. "I was very young the first time I visited. I knew, of course, the direction that my life would take at that point, but I was still in the planning stages of my career—still exploring the world, honing my talents. Barcelona, though, was different; all of my plans and expectations were…less important, somehow, when I was there. So much art, Joan; art and architecture everywhere. And the ocean. I don't romanticize nature, Joan, it's not who I am. The view from my rooms, though, was one that I knew even before the more extensive of my travels was uniquely breathtaking. There was one evening in late spring that I remember spending in a cantina by the water…"

* * *

It wasn't until Joan stirred awake, cradled in Sherlock's arms as he carried her back to her room, that she even realized that she had fallen asleep, drifting off as Moriarty spun tales of the Mediterranean coast.

It shouldn't have been comforting. Moriarty was who she was, and Joan didn't hold out hope that she could change.

But it was.

Sherlock's heartbeat thrumming soft and steady in her ear; the low murmur of Moriarty's voice in the hallway in front of them.

Joan let herself be lulled back to sleep.

* * *

_III. Jamie._

It was well after dawn when Joan began to stir. Jamie was utterly unsurprised by this—when left to her own devices, Joan would unplug her alarm clock and sleep through half the morning nine times out of ten. Knowing Sherlock's habits as she did, Jamie couldn't blame her, though the absolute desperation with which Joan clung to unconsciousness spoke of a sleep deprivation that predated their association, and perhaps even medical school. Childhood insomnia; night terrors? She'd have to float the suggestion, read Joan's reaction.

Jamie watched as a shadow flitted over Joan's face, and then smoothed back out. She was paler than usual, and her hair was still in the same mussed ponytail that Jamie had haphazardly scraped it into the night before. Jamie wasn't petty—Joan's usual beauty was dulled by her illness, but she looked far better than Jamie herself would have, had their situations been reversed.

It really was a shame that Joan would most certainly refuse to let Jamie paint her as she was. Not that Jamie wouldn't do it anyway, but she'd have to be _secretive _about it, which was rather more bothersome when living with two people whose hackles would be immediately raised by her shutting herself behind a locked door.

She couldn't blame them for it, really, but still.

"You weren't there all night, were you?"

Jamie blinked. Sometime during her brown study, Joan had woken up enough to notice Jamie in her armchair, though apparently not enough to bother sitting up.

Jamie smiled at her—she really did sound much better, if a little hoarse. "I was not," she confirmed. "Sherlock was here until receiving a somewhat time sensitive phone call, about half an hour ago. I agreed to take his place, and to see to it that you had whatever you needed when you woke."

Joan nodded drowsily, seemingly satisfied by the explanation, or at least tired enough not to question it. "I feel like I got hit by a truck, but I think I'm done being sick," she replied, stretching slowly and lazily before pushing herself up into a seated position against the wall. "Pretty sure it was food poisoning—the clams I had at dinner last night tasted a little strange, but I figured it was just a different kind of sauce that I wasn't used to."

Jamie could read between the lines easily enough—Joan had known that the dish wasn't quite right, but had eaten it anyway to avoid causing any awkwardness on her date. Of course she had.

Jamie, who had witnessed Joan rejecting a handful of plates or drinks over the previous three weeks, wasn't sure whether to feel annoyed that she didn't merit the same common politeness from Joan that she apparently showed to strangers, or pleased that Joan felt content enough to drop the veneer in front of her.

She settled for ignoring 'feelings' entirely for the moment; they were dull, anyhow. "My dear Joan, we simply must work on your self-preservation instinct," she lamented facetiously instead.

Joan made a face at that. "Don't let Sherlock hear you say that," she warned. "He'll start throwing things at my head again, and try to pass it off as 'awareness training'."

Jamie's interest must have shown on her face, because Joan shot her a dark look. "Don't even try it," she insisted.

Jamie's smile grew. "I make few promises," she reminded Joan, who scowled in return. "In any case, now that you're awake, are you hungry? There was a pastry special at the café this morning, so we've a tray of beignets in the kitchen."

Joan perked up at that. "Starving," she confirmed, taking her hair down from Jamie's messy updo and retying it neatly. "I'd better start off with something blander, just in case, but that sounds fantastic."

Joan looked so pleased by the thought of breakfast that Jamie magnanimously forewent the obvious remark that trusting _more _restaurant cuisine when still recovering from the previous dose was entirely idiotic and far too trusting. Besides offending Joan, as it likely would, it was possible that such commentary would convince her to skip the beignets entirely. And it would be a shame to waste them—it had taken one favor, two veiled threats (half a dozen points of contact removed, of course), and a conveniently diverted shipment of organic eggs to 'convince' the appropriate midtown bakery that they really did wish to open two hours early to craft Jamie's order from scratch.

Not that Jamie had any intention of ever telling Joan that, of course.

"Oh, where did these come from?"

Now out of bed and halfway into her robe, Joan had spotted the vase of flowers on the windowsill, and the look on her face was one of open pleasure. "They're beautiful; I didn't know you could get sunflowers _anywhere _in New York this far out of season."

Jamie smiled sweetly. "Neither did I," she replied lightly. "And yet, here we are."

Or that, either.

* * *

Warnings for those easily squicked out: detailed description of vomiting in section II. Whoops.


End file.
